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Chapter Twelve

Rafferty should have been relieved when the obstreperous Manning family departed for the Ormonds’ that evening.

He was having a hard enough time dealing with Bertha and Martina’s pointed remarks; he didn’t need Georgie’s big blue eyes starting at him longingly any more than he felt like enduring Norah’s acid tongue.

To his surprise, Neddy was just barely sober enough to accompany them, and Sir Elston went as well, complaining loudly, leaving the house to the three of them.

Betsey and Jane had gone home for the evening, happy to get away from their domestic duties.

He wasn’t worried about whether they’d return or not.

He was enough to put the fear of God into anyone who knew him, and the girls knew him very well.

Except that he didn’t put the fear of God into Georgie.

She just looked at him with those shining eyes that should have made him itch.

Well, they did, but the wrong kind of itch.

He liked voluptuous, experienced women who took what they wanted, not innocent schoolgirls.

He had no intention of laying a finger on her if he could help it.

It wasn’t his fault that he’d had to carry her, and she’d been a cozy little bundle, or rub her narrow, pretty feet.

He’d never found feet to be particularly erotic, but hers were, even abraded as they had been.

He liked the idea of her wearing the boots he had bought her—it was as if he had a secret touch. ...

Jesus, no! “I’m going out,” he said abruptly.

Martina looked at him, too wise for his peace of mind. “You’re not going to be stopping in at the Ormonds’ tonight? I doubt you’d be welcome.”

He jerked, startled, then let his bland expression cover his face. “You never can tell,” he said obscurely.

“It’s only the crazy Mannings who’d bring a stranger into their house as a butler,” Bertha pointed out. “You’d hardly be welcome elsewhere.”

“Obviously not,” he said. “Are they particularly close friends to the Ormonds?”

“Not really. They’re a bit above the Mannings’ touch. But the young heir is head over heels for the Beauty, and the parents dote on the boy, so the Mannings might get a step up in society.”

“I see,” he said, which explained nothing. There were some things he had no intention of sharing, and the Ormonds’ adored son was one of them. Though he could wish something better than Norah for the boy.

The current Duke of Ormond was no fool—he would see through Norah’s shallow behavior easily enough, saving his young son from heartbreak, and the dowager duchess had a will of iron. It wasn’t a bit of his business what happened to the boy, Rafferty reminded himself. He was on his own.

The night was cool and rainy, something that bothered him not one whit, and he started down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction of the Ormonds’ magnificent townhouse on Berkeley Square.

He hadn’t heard any word about Stiles, even from the two maids who were usually up on everything.

Billy Stiles was keeping low, but Rafferty didn’t make the mistake of thinking he’d lost interest. As long as Judge Belding’s fortune was unaccounted for, then Rafferty was living on borrowed time.

He paid no attention to the time as he walked.

If he’d had any sense he would have stayed at the house and searched through the attics again.

Stiles was not a man with a great deal of patience, and he was going to show up sooner or later and demand to know where the money was.

If Rafferty couldn’t find it, he was going to have a fair amount of trouble.

Stiles had a small army working for him, and Rafferty was unsure just how many men he could best at one time. No need to be cocky.

The rain was coming down more heavily now, and he tugged up the collar of his coat, cursing.

His skin was wet and clammy, and he was ready for a warm fire and a tot of Neddy’s brandy.

Come to think of it, someone would need to put Neddy to bed, and he wasn’t leaving that task in Georgie’s arms. He looked up to get his bearings, and cursed.

He’d somehow ended up in Berkeley Square, two buildings down from the Ormonds’ mansion, a place he knew as well as he knew himself.

If he had any sense, he’d walk in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to Corinth Place.

It was only a little out of his way, and it would do wonders for his peace of mind.

He walked toward the mansion, drawn against his will.

The carriages lined the streets on both sides of the square—there must be a big crush going on in the massive ballroom on the third floor.

The back gate by the rose garden was still there, overgrown but functioning, and he slipped inside before he could think better of it.

The tree was still there as well. The thing must be ancient—it had been old the last time he’d climbed it—but it looked sturdy enough, and the rain had lessened a bit. A moment later, he was climbing, as nimbly as a chimney sweep, up the massive height to the view of the crowded ballroom.

It wasn’t as busy as the carriages had led him to expect, but then, some people were already leaving, even though it was hardly past midnight.

It didn’t take him long to find the Beauty—she was surrounded by young men and enjoying herself tremendously.

Lady Manning was nearby, basking in Norah’s reflected glory, and the two Manning men were nowhere to be seen.

He wasn’t interested in them. It took another five minutes before he finally found Georgie on the dance floor, moving smoothly enough in Andrew Salton’s arms.

The growl he made startled him. Georgie’s eyes were shining as he whirled her in a decent waltz, though the man was not graceful enough to be a fit partner for her. He was looking down at her, dutifully besotted, and Rafferty growled once again. He didn’t deserve Georgie. No one did.

He was being an idiot. He wanted Georgie in love, with anyone but himself. He wanted her safely married and away from her family’s ramshackle behavior, particularly Norah’s wicked tongue. He glanced around the room, looking for a suitable alternative, still grumbling.

There were at least three other young men who might do, though he didn’t recognize two of them.

Still, they seemed young, strong and presentable, and they weren’t fawning over the Beauty.

And there was young Charles Ormond, with his tall, lean body and his vivid blue eyes staring raptly at Norah’s face.

He was the perfect choice for Georgie, on so many levels, though Rafferty doubted she would enjoy being a future duchess.

The Ormonds were a conventional lot, despite a few rare slips, and they would expect their son to marry the pattern card of respectability.

That would crush the life out of Georgie.

No, perhaps Salton was the wisest choice, despite Rafferty’s misgivings. He looked back toward the dancing couple and froze.

Andrew Salton was clearly a man in love—you could see it from every angle of his face, the way his brown eyes shone with adoration. But he wasn’t looking at Georgie. He was staring, over her shoulder, at Norah Manning.

“Bastard,” Rafferty muttered beneath his breath. His instincts had been right all along. For all the attention he was paying Georgie, he was using her to get to Norah, and Rafferty wanted to punch him. Georgie didn’t deserve to have her heart broken, she deserved the best of the best, and he?—

They turned with the movement of the dance, and he got a better look at Georgie, and cursed underneath his breath.

She wasn’t looking like a young girl in love—no, she saved that expression for his unworthy hide.

No, she looked like someone at her first dance, having a wonderful time.

Salton wasn’t about to break her heart, at least, not yet, and it would be up to Rafferty to make certain that didn’t happen.

Cold rain slithered down his back, and he cursed silently before starting his careful descent. He’d seen what he wanted to see—now he needed to get back to the house on Corinth Place before the Mannings returned.

The tree trunk was slippery, and some of the branches were gone from the last time he’d climbed the thing. He was about twelve feet up when his foot gave away, and he went crashing down the rest of the way to the hard ground.

He lay there for a moment, winded, when he heard the sound of the kitchen door open, and rose quickly, shaking off the momentary dizziness.

“Is someone out there?” came an old man’s voice.

He froze, his worst mistake. And then he moved quickly, up past the rose gate, into the street that was lit by the newest gaslight. Illuminating his face to his pursuer, just for a moment, but the damage was done.

“My God!” said the man who’d followed him. “It’s Master Jamie!”

A moment later, Rafferty was gone, disappearing into the shadows where no one had the unfortunate ability to recognize him.

Robinson, the ancient gardener, was mumbling to himself now, calling himself an old fool, and Rafferty stayed where he was behind a huge outcropping of bushes, barely breathing.

A moment later, the old man went back into the Ormonds’ garden, closing the gate carefully behind him.

And James Rafferty, born James Alexander William Ormond, disappeared into the rainy night, cursing himself as he went.

“Oh, there you are, Rafferty!” Liliane Manning declared with a high-pitched giggle. I’m so glad you’re here—Neddy has had a bit too much of the grape and he’s asleep in the carriage.”

“Let him stay there,” his father grumbled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Manning,” his lady wife protested. “We can’t leave him out there all night—he’ll catch his death.”

“Let him.”

“Now, you know you don’t really feel that way. Rafferty will bring him in and put him to bed, and by tomorrow morning he’ll be fine.”

“Harumph,” said Manning.